Necrosis
by T Stark
Summary: Three years after the death of Sherlock Holmes, and John has been longing to see the detective's face again. But when the dead begin to attack the living, that hope turns to fear. Little does he know that Sherlock is still alive, fighting for survival just as he is. But in a world fallen to chaos, some people will sacrifice innocents to assure their own lives. (Zombielock AU)
1. Chapter 1: John of the Dead

**Before we begin, a few notes. I'll try to keep this quick. **

**This story contains the following: Graphic violence, strong language, major character deaths, and mentions of suicide. Read at your own risk. Also, each chapter is written in first person, the narrator determined by the bolded italic name in the beginning.**

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_**John Watson**_

"You make the reservations for tonight?" I looked up from my mobile as I heard the soft, feminine voice. Molly was scribbling down some notes on the autopsy she was conducting. Car crash. For a moment, I found myself thinking that it was an incredibly dull way to go. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

I nodded, thumbs in my pockets. "Table for two, eight o'clock." I'd begun visiting Molly in the morgue about two years prior. Maybe I should have started sooner. But that first year after The Incident…. Well, let's just say that it was less than easy. If it hadn't been for the regular checking-in of Mrs Hudson, Greg, and Mycroft, I can honestly say that I don't think that have made it. But on a whim, I'd decided to try and pull myself together. Visit the place I so desperately had tried to avoid. And in the long run, I was glad that I did. Molly had provided some comfort, and it seemed that the more I adjusted, the more comfortable she became. This would be out third… well, was it a date, really? Neither of us had called it that outright. But that was what they were, in the end. I was going on dates with Molly Hooper. The very woman who had forgotten my name when introducing me to the man who would later help in tearing my life apart.

She smiled a bit before her own phone alerted her of a text. She seemed in a hurry to look at it, as much as she tried to hide the fact. I didn't ask questions.

After typing out a response, Molly finally met my gaze, her own then glancing at my upper lip. "He'd hate the moustache, you know." Her tone shifted from teasing to regretful in an instant. "I- I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't- I shouldn't have-"

"Molly." I kept my voice both stern and gentle. "It's okay." I had my back to the body on the table as I offered a small smile. Perhaps a touch more grief-stricken than I'd intended. "I'm okay." I thought for a moment before deepening my voice, trying to lighten the mood. " 'Really John, you look ridiculous..What were you thinking growing that? You're such an idiot.' "

She couldn't help but laugh at the impression. "You sound just like him." Not the name. Never the name.

I shrugged, chuckling slightly. "Well, I wouldn't say_ just _like him."

"John…."

Tone no longer amused. More afraid. "Hey. I told you. It's all fine."

"Not, John, that's…."

"You didn't do anything wrong. It's been three years, Molly, I-"

"John!" I'd never heard her shout before, never saw such a look of terror on her face. She was looking not at, but behind me over my shoulder. And as I turned, every damn bit of understanding I had about the world vanished.

I didn't remember saying anything until I heard myself all but screaming something along the lines of "What the fuck?!" Soldier instincts kicking in instantly, I stood in front of Molly, using my body as a sort of barricade between her and the man standing from the table.

For a second or two, my mind was racing. After all, there had been a time when my life revolved around logical thinking and using it to figure out what was going on. At first, I assumed that he'd been mistakenly pronounced dead, only to be awakening now with no idea where he was. But he'd been drained of blood, cut open for the autopsy. He should have been dead. Not staggering toward us, groaning like something out of a cliche horror film.

The last thing I expected was for it- Him? No, definitely it- to lunge at us. Faster than one would imagine. It caught my jacket, but I was able to shrug it off. While it was distracted by the fabric in its hand, I managed to kick it in the gut, sending it backwards again. Without hesitation, I reached into the waistband of my jeans, suddenly glad that I hadn't listened to Mrs Hudson's talk about how "Silly" it was to bring it with me wherever I went. I shot it in the chest. It should have been an instant death, the bullet went straight through its heart. Cursing again, I aimed this time for the head. That ended it, caused it to fall to the floor. I kept the gun pointed at it, anyway.

Molly was trembling, to the point where she had to use the wall to help her remain standing. "W- what the hell was that?" Her voice soft, yet intense.

I didn't get a chance to tell her that I didn't have an answer. But as I felt a strong grip on my arm, it all clicked. The dead were rising. And we were in a morgue.

I broke the bone of the arm holding on to my sleeve. Only then did I process the screams coming from behind me.

They had her- five of them- in firm grasps. Tight, rendering her struggling useless. "Molly!" Again, I hadn't noticed I'd screamed until her name passed my lips. I readied the gun again.

One shot. Hit one dead centre in the forehead. It fell. I pulled the trigger again. Nothing. No. No, no, no, not now. I couldn't run out right now. I was frozen in place, unable to help as I watched them tear at her flesh. One got a handful of hair, and I was fairly certain that a piece of her scalp came with it.

I was certain that I wouldn't survive a moment longer.

"Get out!" I heard her screaming over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. She got a bite taken out of her arm. "John, get out! Now! Just go! I-"

She didn't get to finish. The next thing I saw was Molly Hooper's ribcage being exposed, her intestines being ripped out of her body. And finally, her head being severed.

I took advantage of their focus on eating her remains. Not one of them noticed me bolting out of there and onto the streets.

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**Another note! Each chapter has a song that fits in with it, which I will announce at the end. This one is _Sound of Madness _by Shinedown~**


	2. Chapter 2: The Dearly Departed

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

To most, the day on which I fell from the rooftop must have seemed a lifetime ago. But as for myself, I was still living it. There were often times when, on the rare occasion that I did sleep, I would relive it over and over again. Usually, it was the memory of John screaming my name which woke me. It was good that I only got an average of four hours a week.

I'd been telling myself that it would be over soon for seven months. That was how long it had been since I'd first located the last assassin. I'd been preparing to cross Sebastian Moran off of my mental list for so long, it felt as though his name were etched in stone. But that was all going to end today. This would be my final day in the shadows.

He was staying in a fairly nice hotel in Glasgow. If there was one thing I knew, it was that Moran didn't use security. Because he was dangerous enough on his own.

Years ago, perhaps I'd have been concerned about the fact that the odds said that I wouldn't get out alive.

No one was watching. This was the time for me to make my move. I started toward his door, worn, oversized coat concealing my weapon. I missed my long one. I'd stashed it in a warehouse in London. John had a replica. I appeared confident knocking on the door, ignoring the pounding of my heart and head as I attempted to predict what he would do. "Mr Arkwrite," That was the alias he was using. I spoke in a Scottish accent, raising my voice about half an octave. "There was something left at the front desk for you. Asked that I deliver it."

Honestly, I'd expected some more caution on his part. I'd planned for up to an hour of conversation with the man I'd been searching for for all this time. But this worked just as well. As he opened the door, I saw that he recognised me in an instant. Which was more than most could say. His hand instantly went to his pocket, where I was sure he hid a gun. I was able to knock his arm away, followed immediately by my knuckles greeting his face. I felt his nose break on impact.

That distracted him enough for me to get him in a headlock and throw him to the ground. He was breathing, but didn't move. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Generally, I tried to keep from taking their lives as much as possible. I'd leave them locked up who-knows-where and leave an anonymous tip for police.

This was supposed to be that sort of situation.

He was faking. The way his eyes moved even with the lids closed. I noticed just a moment too late. I was already kneeling over him when he struck, a right hook to my jaw. I'll admit that it took me by surprise, and I found myself laying on the floor. When I glanced up, I was looking down the barrel of his signature rifle.

"Still causing trouble, are we, Mr Holmes?" Hearing my name spoken directly to me was nearly foreign to my ears by this time. "Should've figured it was you. My coworkers all in the papers, either dead or arrested. Swore I'd get revenge on whoever did it. Only to find out it was you all along? This really is exciting." He smirked. "Maybe when we're done here, I'll pay a little visit to London. Finish the job I was hired to do."

He'd been too focused on his own ego to notice as I grabbed my pistol from my jacket. I was certainly glad that I'd managed to get that silencer. An audience would be the last thing I needed. I shot my attacker in the chest, watched as he fell. If he heard one final thing before he died, it was my voice muttering a single word. "Moron."

I should have gotten the hell out of there. After all, as far as the police were concerned, I'd just committed a murder. But I found myself standing with my back against the wall for about three minutes. It was over. It was all over. I'd survived three years of this, and now it was done. I could go home.

I knew something was amiss the moment I heard a voice other than my own. Although, it was more of a guttural moaning than a real voice. The sight rendered me just short of catatonic.

When I arrived on my brother's doorstep, he simply nodded in greeting. I expected nothing more. Mycroft and Molly had been the only ones who knew of my survival, and he had never exactly been one for warm welcomes. "We need to talk. Now." I didn't wait to be invited in. Just pushed past him.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You've returned. Does that mean you're finished?" He picked up his half-emptied glass of whiskey.

"Yes." I shook my head. "No. I don't know." I ran my fingers through my hair, which was long overdue for a wash. "I killed Moran. Shot him right through the heart." I was pacing by this point. "And a few minutes later, he stood up and came after me again."

Silence. It had to have lasted for no less than ten seconds. "Sherlock," His voice came quietly. "You swore to me that no matter how difficult things got, you wouldn't begin using again."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "I am clean!" Shouting now. "He came back, Mycroft! I don't know how, I don't know why, but he came back after I killed him! I was completely sober! I saw it!" I must have sounded so pathetic. So afraid.

Mycroft didn't get a chance to respond. He was interrupted by the sound of groaning as the door was pulled open.

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**There. Setting the story up: Done. Prepare for the plot moving along more!**

**This chapter's song is _Road to Nowhere_, by Bullet For My Valentine~**


	3. Chapter 3: The Ghost of My Past

_**John Watson**_

"Grace, Amanda and Dani, you lot go see what you can find for food. See if there's anything people haven't already taken. Julia, Nick, and Maria, go find some medication. We'll need it if anyone ends up ill. We don't know how long this all is going to last, and we want to be prepared. Andrew, Reiley and I will go look for new shelter. We don't want a repeat of last night. We meet back here in two hours." It had been a week since "The Beginning of the End", as some of the more dramatic survivors were calling it. As soon as I'd got home, I'd done everything I could to contact everyone. Mrs Hudson, Harry, Greg, Mycroft. Even Donovan and Anderson, when I'd begun to run out of options. No one answered their phones. I assumed the worst. Two days later, and I'd had no choice but to evacuate 221B. The power had gone out later that evening. I'd met up with as many survivors as I could, and because of my experience in the army, I'd been put in charge. The night before, our shelter had been invaded. By survivors, no less. Looters. That was what we called people who killed innocent people to get at their provisions. I'd been in a war, and yet this was the moment I truly saw just how disgusting the human race was. We lost five people. Brian, Rachel, Jack, and Cassy and Anthony, who had died in each others' arms.

We'd started of with twenty-five. We were down to nine.

Of the people we had left, I was the only one who had ever even held a gun. Dani was an aspiring artist. She'd been visiting her mum when all hell had broken loose. Andrew was in university, and had been at his brother's funeral. Reiley was a primary school teacher. She'd been teaching addition before watching her students being slaughtered. Nick was a doctor, whose situation hadn't been much different than mine. Amanda was a lawyer. She'd been attacked in her office. Julia had been a secretary on maternity leave. That was why I'd put Nick in her group. She'd had to cut off her husband's head. It was Grace and Maria that really bothered me, though. They were both only kids. Fifteen and sixteen years old respectively, exchange students from America. I hated splitting them up, as they were the only ones who knew anyone prior to this, but it was for their own safety.

There were seven zombies- As much as I hated calling them that. It still didn't seem real- outside. Amanda snuck out the back, and the rest of us stayed hidden away until we heard a single gunshot, followed by her shouting "Oi! Fuckwits!" Once they were focused on her, we made our move. Aiming for the heads.

Nick had resorted to carrying Julia, and yet still managed to have decent aim. I was impressed. We split off into out groups without any casualties.

My group of three was attacked about forty-five minutes in. Ten of them. I got separated from them at some point during the fight. That was something I'd learned early on never to do. Never go off alone. Keeping my footsteps light, I turned a corner into a nearby alleyway. The sun was getting low in the sky. It would be dark soon. And darkness would be our downfall.

There was a figure at the end of the alleyway, one that was crouching over a body which had been torn apart. A man, perhaps in his late thirties. Blood soaked into his clothing.

But I didn't shoot. Because even without seeing the face, even at that distance, I knew who it was.

The lanky body, even thinner than I remembered. Dark curls matted with blood. I had to put my hand over my mouth, though whether it was to suppress a scream or a sob, I wasn't sure. This was what I'd been afraid of. It was him. I should have fired. After all, he wouldn't have wanted this. But I couldn't. I couldn't watch him die. Not again.

I bolted before he could turn around. I was glad that I didn't have to see his face. Or, after three years, what was left of it.

"John!" It was ten minutes later that I heard Reiley's voice calling for me. She didn't waste a second before pulling me into a tight, if brief, embrace. "I thought you were dead." She was half panting.

"Still breathing." I glanced around for a moment. "Andrew…?"

She shook her head. "Couldn't take it. Took his own bullet." A nodded, telling her to come with me to the meeting place. We would mourn later. There was no time now.

When we regathered, we numbered only seven. I'll never forget the expression in Grace's eyes as she counted, unable to find Maria within our ranks. Reiley led us to an abandoned factory which she'd found while looking for me. "Someone's been here before us," She spoke as she locked the doors. "But it must have been before all of this started. A few years, maybe. There's some cans of food, a few blankets. Even found a pack of cigarettes in the closet. But they were all covered in dust. More than what forms in a week."

For two days, we kept ourselves locked away. Grace cried for most of it, and we were all doing the best we could to comfort her. I sat with her for six hours at one point, holding her even long after she'd fallen asleep. It was night when we heard someone picking the lock.

We all had guns at the ready when the door was pushed open, revealing the thin figure of a man. He was dressed all in black leather, including his long, billowing coat, which brought back some painful memories on my part. The coat had a hood, which was up, and his face was obscured by black cloth which had been wrapped around his head, leaving only his eyes visible. On his back was a bag, and on his hip, a sword, two daggers, a crossbow, and a pistol. I saw his eyes widen for a moment as he took us in, hands raising to show that he had no intention of harming us. The commotion had woken Grace up, and she was close by my side. "It's all right!" His voice managed to be quiet and urgent. American. Grace furrowed her brow in suspicion the moment he spoke. "It's all right, I'm not a looter!"

We didn't drop our guard. "What's your name?" I made sure that he knew that I was insisting on an answer.

He didn't get to give one. The sound of glass shattering behind us, everyone turning to face it. Our Mystery Man drew his sword. I felt the blood drain from my face as no less than twenty-five zombies fought for a chance to crawl through the window.

Mystery Man and I acted first, moving almost in unison. Under any other circumstances, I'd have been a bit concerned with just how skilled he was at killing things. But then, we were all shooting away. He was the only one who didn't use his gun.

Nick screamed first. He was being held against a wall, one of them tearing off flesh with its teeth before plunging its hand into his chest and tearing out his lungs. Amanda lost her dominant arm not long after.

I was focusing on a group that was in front of me. I didn't notice the one that was reaching toward my head from the back until I felt the cold fingers, warm with Amanda's blood, on my scalp. Then more blood, this time splattering onto the back of my neck. When I looked, Mystery Man was tossing its head to the floor. I would thank him later, assuming we both lasted that long.

Reiley went down next. Friendly fire. I heard Grace scream in horror as she saw what she'd done, and saw the result, which was Reiley being torn limb from limb. She was so devastated that she wasn't aware of the two coming at her from either side until it was too late. I called her name out as loud as I could as they ripped out her eyes before using the sockets as leverage to get to the brain. Dani had been attacked from behind, and had her neck snapped and tossed to the side. Her eyes were still open.

Amanda was fading fast. Her right shoulder was losing a lot of blood, and yet she kept on fighting. But it was Julia who really surprised me. Eight months pregnant and still managing to defend both herself and Amanda. They lasted another minute and a half before they were overpowered. Amanda ended up too weak to stand and having her spine all but ripped out. When Julia went, the three she'd been fighting off went straight for her abdomen.

I'd rather not go into detail about that one.

There were only five of them left, and two of us. Just me and Mystery Man. "Just the two of us against the rest of the world." I knew that I would have seen a smirk were his face visible. "Here." He tossed me a dagger. "Guns are good, yes, but blades don't need reloading." He rushed forward, taking out two with a single swing. He then took out a leg on another, and I quickly took that opportunity to get close enough to cut its head off. As he was finishing off another, I grabbed the last one and slammed its head into the wall hard enough to break the skull and damage the brain.

We were breathing heavily as we glanced around at the bloodbath around us. My hand covered my mouth. "You trust me?" I hardly noticed he was speaking. "I said, do you trust me?"

Was that really what he was asking right now? Actually, I guess it was a valid question. I nodded. After all, did I have much of a choice?

"Good." He pulled off the fabric from his face. And for the first time, I saw him for who he really was. Sherlock Holmes put his sword back in his sheath. "We've got work to do."

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**Chapter song: _Now is the Time_, by 10 Years.**


	4. Chapter 4: Dead Man's Tales

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

I stayed with my brother for another nine days after the breakout, occasionally venturing out to get supplies or to investigate. That was what I was doing when I heard a familiar pattern of footsteps. One which I hadn't heard in far too long.

I wasn't in a good position. A man supposed to be dead, kneeling over a body in the middle of a zombie outbreak. As much as I wanted to stand, to express my absolute relief that he was alive, I knew that I couldn't at the moment. So I waited.

And now there I was, watching the colour drain out of John's face. He didn't respond for a moment, just stood and stared. But then his gun was pointed at my head. I took a step backwards, feeling that showing a bit of weakness could end up saving my life. "You- you're dead." His voice was shaking. "You're dead, I- I saw you." I tried to speak, but he cut me off. "You're one of them. You're one of them, you have to be."

To say that his assumption was illogical would be far from correct. And I didn't look dissimilar to one of the... Damn, I hated calling them undead. I'd lost a significant amount of weight, having only eaten an average of once a week. I slept about four hours every three days, and that resulted in my eyes being dark underneath. "John, listen to me." I took another step back. "It was all faked. My death, the autopsy, everything. None of it was real." I watched as he shook his head. "John, put the gun down. It's me. If I were one of them, would I be focusing on talking to you, or ripping your throat out?"

He seemed to be considering this. But he kept the weapon raised. "You... You bastard...!" Okay, not how I'd hoped. "All this time, and you... You were alive..." He took a deep breath, clearly trying to keep from shouting. "You left us. All of us, and you expect to just be able to walk back in when the world goes to hell? Oh, but that's right!" Hard. Sarcastic. Broken. "You're Sherlock Holmes! You don't understand or- or care about emotions or anything!" His gaze was more intense than I'd ever seen it. Teeth gritted.

I allowed my gaze to fall to the floor. "John... I had to shoot my brother today." Forcing our eyes to meet now. "Don't tell me that I don't understand emotion. Don't you dare."

This seemed to soften him a bit. "Turned?" I'm not sure he was aware that he was lowering the gun.

I nodded. "Went to him the day it all started. He didn't believe a word of it, of course, I wouldn't have, either. A few broke in. One got to him before I could get to it." I conveniently left out the fact that I'd had the chance to shoot, but it had been holding him, and I'd had a moment of doubt. Sure that I would miss and hit him, instead. "Bit him right on the neck. It shouldn't have been fatal, there's just... There's something in it that kills the victim. Slowly, though. He just died today." Again, I left out a detail. This time of how I'd all but screamed his name until it felt as though my throat was bleeding. "When he got up, I had a glimmer of hope that it was just some sort of miracle. But clearly that wasn't the case."

"I... I'm sorry." I waved away the sympathy. "Why did you go? How could you do this to me? To all of us?"

I sat down, back against the wall. John followed suit. "There were assassins. Either I died in disgrace, or every one of the people I care about would have been killed by Moriarty's men. I had no choice. I've been hunting them down. Finished the day all of this began." I hesitated. "How many are left?" I was afraid to hear the answer.

John appeared to think this over. "Molly and I were in the morgue in the beginning. She's gone. Mrs Hudson wouldn't have lasted more than a day. Greg might still be out there, but I haven't heard from him. Same with Harry. Even tried Donovan and Anderson, but I doubt they're still alive."

I could only imagine what they'd been thinking as they died. "Three years..." This was more to myself than John. Flying to my feet, I pulled out my pistol, began shouting as I fired at the wall. "Three fucking years, for nothing!" I generally didn't curse, but I wasn't exactly concerned with that at the moment.

"Sherlock!" I didn't fight as John took the gun from my hands. "Do you want to use up all our ammunition and tell them where we are?" I felt my body go rigid as he embraced me. After all, for years, physical contact had meant nearly certain death. "It's all right, Sherlock. It's all right. I'm here, I'm alive. You did your best, it wasn't for nothing."

I calmed down fairly quickly. Perhaps two minutes. "We have to burn the bodies." Making some distance between us now, making my way to a nearby closet. "Gather up food, weapons, anything you can find. We have to move. It will be night soon." I pulled out a container of lighter fluid, which I'd used for cooking during my time staying in this very building in the first week of my death. "When you finish, we burn this place to the ground. We can't risk any of them turning."

John agreed, did as I asked. I began drenching the corpses in the fluid, silently paying my respects to each. Not that I'd let John know that.

Having found a length of rope, I trailed it outside, using it as a fuse. Once lit, we got a safe distance away. And when we caught the first glimpse of flame, John, stone-faced and somber, saluted his fallen makeshift soldiers. For his sake, I did the same.

After a lengthy silence, I spoke once more. "I do have one question for you." I looked down at his moustache. "What the hell is on your face?"

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**Another one by Shinedown. This one is _I'm Alive_.**


	5. Chapter 5: Decaying Hope

_**John Watson**_

I followed the mad bastard all around London. We would lock ourselves in abandoned houses and flats when we needed to eat or sleep, though we never both did at the same time. Someone always kept watch. Sherlock kept the crude mask on the majority of the time. For his own safety, apparently. In a way, it relieved me that I didn't have to look at his face. He was far too thin, far too tired-looking. And the short hair, though practical, didn't suit him. But on the other hand, seeing that face again was the only thing I'd wanted for so long.

Sherlock chose a pub, of all places, to look for provisions. I tried telling him that it was a stupid idea, but he was Sherlock. He wouldn't listen to me.

There were bodies scattered across the floor. Some zombies, some not. I looked to Sherlock, silently telling him that it would be in our best interest to get the hell out of there. But he insisted on continuing inside. I could do nothing but comply.

Maybe he was right. Maybe I really was an idiot.

Rustling in the next room. Whispering. Very much alive. We looked to each other, nodded nearly in unison. I put my dagger and gun away, silently telling Sherlock to do the same. He did. I knocked on the door three times before I pushed it open. Zombies didn't knock, and I certainly didn't want to be killed.

A man and a woman were huddled in the corner. Both in their early twenties, brown hair and matching eyes. Twins. She had a butcher knife. He had a crowbar. Both were pointed at us. We raised our hands. "You're lucky." Sherlock spoke first. "Having family who survived this. Most don't have that fortune." They both stood, not off alert. "What are your names?"

The woman looked over to her brother. He shook his head. "Yours first." He eyed us carefully, Sherlock especially. I'd told him that the mask raised suspicions.

"I'm John." Another thing I'd learned. Never give out full names. I wondered what Sherlock would say. After all, if he was so desperate to hide his identity that he kept his face obscured, he wouldn't want to give out his less-than-common name.

But, of course, he had everything under control. "Ben." It came without hesitation. He must have used the alias often while he was "dead".

This seemed to satisfy them. The woman stepped forward, lowering her knife. "I'm Sherie, this is Sean." I glanced around the pub, mumbling something about Simon Pegg and irony. Sean wasn't amused. "You're the first we've seen in days. We were starting to think we were the only ones left."

"Far from it." Sherlock seemed to be struggling not to keep a hand on his sword for precaution. Must have been an instinct he'd picked up fighting the assassins. "We had to deal with five looters just last night, and it was obvious that they were just part of a larger group." I nodded to confirm this.

Sean took his turn now. "Five looters? Just the two of you?" Another nod, this time from both of us. "That's incredible."

"Come with us." The proposal came with barely a thought. "The more people we have, the better. And you look like you haven't eaten in days."

Sherlock didn't say a word.

Sherie and Sean looked at each other before turning toward us again. "Just let us get our stuff together." I told them that was fine.

Once they were out of earshot, Sherlock addressed me in a whisper. "Are you insane? Come on, we're going."

I furrowed my brow. "They're survivors, Sherlock. They obviously know what they're doing if they've lived this long." I kept my voice hushed, as well. "It's better to travel in groups. We watch each others' backs."

"Yes, or they accuse you of murdering another member of the party." I asked him what he meant. "Before I found you, I met up with another group of survivors. I was with two others. A man and a woman. Kelsey and Adam. She shot him over a bottle of water. She tried to kill me, as well, but I got away. Next thing I know, I'm running from both the zombies and them." His tone stern. "Don't trust anyone." I was about to ask him if that meant that he didn't trust me, either, but the twins had returned by this point.

At first, I'd been worried that Sherlock would be stubborn. That he would rather go off on his own than invite our new colleagues. But he stayed, though he clearly didn't enjoy it.

"I'd say St Bart's is our best option." Sherie was leading the way, followed by Sherlock and I, and Sean behind us. "It's big enough to hide in, but we should still be able to know if any of them break in. Not to mention the fact that it has actual beds. John, you said you're a doctor. It may not be your area of expertise, but maybe you can try to make a combination of medications that could counteract the virus."

"It's not a virus." Sherlock didn't miss a beat when it came to correcting her. "It's just a familiar word used as a bit of comfort in an unfamiliar situation." I told him to shut up.

Sherie pretended not to hear him. "John, you come with me to do that. Sean and Ben, go look for more food. You can never have too much, not in times like these." I couldn't say I disagreed with her.

It didn't take a genius to see that Sherlock was sceptical. But he complied. Instead of speaking, be blinked out his message to me in morse. 'Be careful'

We arrived at Bart's at three o'clock. "They lock it all up this way." I gestured to the left.

"Don't you think we should scope it out first? Make sure we're alone?" Right. Probably a good idea. We went straight. I was peering into one of the rooms when I felt her hand on my shoulder.

At first, I expected her to betray me. But instead, she pulled me in close, pressed her lips against mine. Having not seen it coming, it took me a second before I relaxed, closed my eyes. Our mouths moved in unison, as if we were mentally connected. At least, until I felt myself being forcefully pushed into a supply room and heard the door being slammed shut.

I guess my first instinct was right.

I tried the handle. Locked. "Sherie!" I called out for her, anxiety in my voice. But that anxiety quickly turned to terror as I heard a low moaning behind me. Or, to be more precise, three low moanings. "Sherie! Open the fucking door!"

"Sorry, John. Survival of the fittest. Thanks for the help." Not even the faintest suggestion of remorse.

I reached for my gun, only to find that it was missing. The same could be said for my dagger. She must have grabbed them while I was distracted.

Three zombies, one me, no weapons. I was half tempted to just sit down and accept the inevitable.

The first one to strike got my fist in its cheek. Lucky for me, they weren't very steady on their feet. I had limited supplies to work with, the most deadly thing being a mop. I knocked one to the ground, kicking it in the back of the head until both the floor and my shoe were smeared with red. It seemed to be effective, so I tried it on the other two. When I finally managed to kick the door open, Sherie's mutilated body greeted me. I took my weapons back, only one thing on my mind as I bolted out of the building.

Sherlock.

I searched for the better part of an hour. More than once, I told myself that it was pointless. Sean had no doubt killed him by now. But that was when I saw the figure of a tall, thin man, dressed all in leather, with black fabric covering his face. The coat was missing. We stared at one another at first before sprinting forward.

"They... Sherie and Sean... They're..."

"Looters, I know." Sherlock gave me a look, which I knew was meant to gloat that he'd been right. "Ran into five zombies. Threw me at them."

I nodded. "We can talk about it later. Right now, we have to move." I grabbed onto his wrist. That was when he issued a noise of pain. I froze, turning toward him, waiting for an explanation. When I got none, I pulled up his sleeve.

There was a pit in my stomach when I saw the bite wound.

"Grabbed onto my coat." Sherlock was quiet. "I knew it was a bad idea from the beginning, but I couldn't resist." His eyes met mine. "I'm sorry."

"No. No, no, no, no, no." I didn't let go of his arm. Not him. Anyone but him. "Don't you dare apologise. Apologising means giving in." I was fighting back tears. "We've just got to find a way to stop it before it happens. There has to be a way."

There had to be.

* * *

**Song: _Live This Down_- Papa Roach_  
_**


	6. Chapter 6: Stairway to Heaven

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

"Stop scratching at it."

John had been scolding me for this since we'd barricaded ourselves inside a factory. Due to a shortage of water, he'd had to resort to cleaning the blood off of my wound with a dry scrap of cloth from a uniform he'd found in a closet. In all honesty, at first glance, it didn't look very serious. Only a small piece of flesh missing, and not very deep. But given the situation, we both knew just how deadly it was. After only minutes of having been injured, it had begun to feel as though thousands of insects were living beneath the surface of my skin. Once the blood was cleared away, one could see that there were the beginning signs of necrosis around the edges. The sight made John curse.

I hardly reacted when he put the antibiotic on, though whatever infections had already settled down were protesting. My face was expressionless as the gauze was put in place. John noticed. "Just say something. Anything." I knew why he made this request. Because as far as he knew, any moment could be my last.

Sighing a bit in pure defeat, I drew my arm back. It was a good thing that it wasn't my right. Having an injured dominant arm could prove fatal. "Like what?" My gaze wandered upwards. "It took my brother ten days before he died. And up until his final minute or so, he was slowly being driven into madness. That was a man in good health, with as much proper medical supplies as we could get our hands on. I've got neither of those going for me. I'd give it a week, at most."

He slapped me. Hard. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" I blinked a few times. "We are not letting you just let this happen, do you hear me? And stop pretending you're not bothered by any of this." His words were harsh, but his eyes were pleading. "When were you planning on telling me that you…." I could tell that he didn't want to even think about it.

I shook my head. "I didn't. Not directly, anyway. Figured I'd find you a group of survivors who could be trusted, then sneak away while you were asleep. Leave you a note explaining the situation. And after that, once I was a distance away, locate someone who would have some mercy on me."

It was clear that he understood exactly what I was saying. "No. No, that's not an option. You're not dying on me. Not again." John took my face in his hands. "Like I said. We're going to fix this. You said we've got a week, yeah? Then that's how long we have to figure out how to stop it. All we have to do is keep you alive until then." I mumbled something about it being easier said than done. He told me to shut up.

We started off the following morning. John was unusually quiet. "What is it?" He glanced up at me. "You've got that look."

"What look?"

"The one you get when you're thinking about doing something reckless."

"You're one to talk."

I stopped in my tracks. John did the same. "Tell me." Not a request. An order.

John seemed to be considering whether or not he should do as I said. But he gave in. "Sean…. He still alive?"

I nodded. "As far as I know. But if he's anything like his sister, skill-wise, I doubt it."

His turn to nod now. Though his was more thoughtful. Then, a quiet rage filled his expression. "I'll kill him. I'll rip that fucker open and wait for him to come back, just so I can get the satisfaction of killing him again." I could tell that he meant every word of this. That he had no intention of going back on his promise.

Really, I should have protested. But I couldn't seem to find any place in my heart to feel sorry for the man who was responsible for all of this. "You've got my blessing."

"Unless you'd rather do it." John's smile was forced. Even he would have been able to tell that, were he in my position. I didn't bring it up.

I simulated a grin, as well. If only to comfort him. "We'll see." A hundred meanings behind these two words. Let him take his pick.

It was another two days before the symptoms began to really show. There was the ever growing sensation spreading from the wound, and of course the flesh around it dying, but I was able to hide those easily enough. There had been times when I'd considered just doing away with the arm entirely, but I'd observed the bodies of zombies who in life had apparently attempted to do the same thing. All that would do would make me vulnerable and more likely to die sooner. Not the option I wanted.

John was determined that we would find a way to stop not only my turning, but everyone else's, as well. But with only about five days left, the chances were looking incredibly slim. We hadn't made any progress whatsoever. "Look," John was seated on the floor of our most recent shelter, a hand-drawn map of London laid out in front of him. Surprisingly accurate, really. "They say that the first one was reported being seen here. That's got to mean something, right?" I didn't say a word. "Sherlock? You with me?"

I snapped, though I couldn't truly explain why. "Yes, I am fucking with you!" Not quite shouting, but close. I stood, running my fingers through my far-too-short hair. "I'm still here! It's still me! For a few more days, it's still me!" John looked too stunned to speak, so I continued. "Don't you understand? It's over! I'm done! My story is finished! There is a war going on out there, John! The world is at war, and you're a soldier! What the hell good is it going to do anyone sitting here and worrying about me? You can't save everyone!"

It took a moment for him to respond, tone firm. "I can try."

My laugh was far from humourous. It was dry. Sarcastic. "Is that what you told everyone else? That you were trying? And how much good did that do, John?! Trying didn't save your group of survivors! You said that there were more before I got there, did trying save any of them?! They died! I saw the bodies of six innocent people in that warehouse! One of them was a fucking kid! Why can't you process the fact that trying doesn't work?!" It was clear that I'd hit a nerve by bringing up the young girl. And in an instant, I realised what I'd said. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean…." Softer now. "It's… it's one of the side effects. I- I know you did everything you could. It wasn't your fault." I locked gazes with him to emphasise my words.

For a moment or two, I was certain that he would never accept my plea for forgiveness. But he nodded, rolling up his map. "I say we check out the place the first sighting was at. See what we can find."

I didn't argue.

When we arrived, the carnage was unlike anything I'd seen, even in all this time. Literally hundreds of bodies, scattered around, each completely mutilated to the point that they didn't even look human anymore. I knelt down next to one of them. Zombie. Male. Dead for about a week. Killed again perhaps four days ago. High social class. I turned it over. I felt my breath catch in my throat, felt myself stumbling back. "Sherlock?" I heard John's voice calling me, but didn't react to it. "Sherlock, what is it?" He came over, and under normal circumstances, I'd have pulled myself together. But I was ill- That was what it really was, wasn't it?- and wasn't thinking straight. John didn't seem to be doing much better. "Is that…?"

I nodded, attempting to swallow whatever seemed to be keeping me from being able to speak. There was no doubt about it. That was him. "He was alive." I managed to get this out, and it got slightly easier from there. "He was alive this whole time." I couldn't take my eyes off of Jim Moriarty's face. Unmoving now, a good portion of the skin missing. "He faked it. On the rooftop, he faked it. How?"

John put a hand on my shoulder. "Hardly matters now, does it? Come on. Let's go." I couldn't agree more.

It was twenty-four hours later. John and I were taking on a small crowd of zombies. Nothing we couldn't handle. After I decapitated one, I found myself freezing in place as I stared at something I simply couldn't believe.

It was a hallucination. It had to be. But I was suddenly too focused on the figure coming toward me from the front to notice the one approaching from the left. I was lucky that my companion wasn't so easily distracted. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" He must have seen just how distraught I looked- And I was sure that I did look distraught- and put his hand on my shoulder. I'd explained to him everything that was going to happen to me, and he understood what was happening after a moment. "What is it? What do you see?"

I couldn't take my eyes off of the apparition, even as I spoke. It took a few tried before I was able to form words. "You." My gun was raised, hand shaking. "It- it's you. As one of them." I watched as it staggered toward us, but John didn't move. He didn't see it.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, listen to me. It's not real. It's not real, you understand? I'm right here." Hands on both of my arms now. "Don't shoot at it, it will only be wasting ammunition. We have to get somewhere safe. We'll get you sitting down, and then we'll talk about this. It's going to be all right, you understand? Just put the gun down, and we'll figure it all out. Sherlock, are you hearing me?"

I only nodded, forcing myself to put my gun back into its holster.

We decided on my brother's house, in the end. There were a decent amount of security measures, some of which didn't require electricity. I tried reminding John that they'd gotten in once before, but he assured me that we would be more careful. "Just… just don't go upstairs. I didn't move him." John agreed as he sat me down on the bed which, when I had lived there before moving into Baker Street, had been mine.

He didn't say a word as he took my left arm, gently removing the bandage. I wanted to tell him not to, but there was no doubt in my mind that he would pull the "I'm-a-doctor-I-know-what-I'm-doing" card. But I'd never forget that look of suppressed horror on his face as he looked. Nearly half of the flesh on my forearm was discoloured, literally rotting away. John was obviously doing his best to pull himself together as he examined it. "Does it hurt?" His voice was far from strong.

I shook my head. "Just uncomfortable." Pulling my arm back, I began rewrapping the gauze. "Any word on Sean yet?"

"Yeah. Heard from a few survivors that they saw someone fitting his description fighting off a few near Trafalgar Square. Asked why I wanted to know."

"And what did you tell them?"

"That he was a looter who tried to kill us. Didn't tell them the whole story, of course." Probably a good call. "Sherie might have had a point, you know. There might be a way to mix medications in order to stop all of this."

I didn't want to interrupt that touch of hope in his voice. So I pretended to have some of my own. "It's worth a try. Try to counteract the separate symptoms. Could buy us some more time, at least. It's all a matter of finding what we need." My attention snapped to the door of my bedroom, but once I saw John's confused expression, I waved it off.

I shouldn't have.

Eight. Eight zombies, all fighting to be the first to get in the room. "Fuck!" John grabbed his dagger, I readied my crossbow. "How the hell did they get in?!" I didn't know. Didn't have the faintest idea. But something about it wasn't right.

"Someone else is out there." I fired, taking out two in one go. "Survivor. Footsteps are different. Too cautious."

John slit one of their throats, which slowed it down long enough for him to get behind it and rip the head off. "Yeah, well, they don't seem to be interested in helping, do they?"

I was aiming, which I usually did incredibly quickly. But today, I found myself struggling. That was when my situation went to hell.

It was the worst possible time for it to happen. "John!" I was disorientated, my heart pounding. "I can't see! I can't see anything!" I could hear them getting closer. But shooting the crossbow would risk hitting John. The sword would be best for this.

All I could do was estimate where the necks were and swing blindly. I was fairly certain that I got at least one. But it wasn't enough.

I felt myself being grabbed, slammed up against the wall. Hands bony and grotesque. And yet amazingly strong. I was doing everything I could to fight it off, focusing on that, instead of the sound of John crying out my name. He was fighting off more than one, I could tell. One of the hands moved to my face, pushing my head to the side. That was when I felt that tell-tale burning sensation. Not quite decaying teeth burying into my neck, creating a new gash in my skin. It felt even worse than the last time. Like white-hot prongs digging into me, that irritation beginning immediately. I screamed.

John must have finished his own battle, because I suddenly no longer felt its grip. Unable to keep myself standing, he supported me as I began sinking to the floor. My breaths were staggered. "Hey. Hey, look at me. Can you see anything yet? You're all right, you're going to be all right. Just stay with me, yeah? Just stay awake." John was pleading. "We've still got work to do. Just the two of us against the rest of the world, remember?"

I could do nothing but sit there as I heard someone else enter the room. John turned to face him- Definitely a man- without leaving my side. "You fucking bastard." I could tell by the tone of his voice that someone wasn't going to get out of here alive. "You let them in, didn't you? What the fuck do you have against us so that you'd try to kill us twice?" Well, at least I knew who it was now.

Sean sounded to be pacing. Probably holding a gun. "You're clever." He came a bit closer, John tightening his grip on me. "You've got a lot of good supplies that I could use." I felt John being forced away, probably kicked. "Not to mention the fact that it's because of you that my sister is dead."

"Are you serious? I would have tried to save her if I hadn't been locked in with a hoard of zombies!" He was cut off by what I assumed was another kick.

I fired my pistol. Sean fell. John looked up at me in awe and relief. "See you in Hell." I managed to say this through the pain.

John scrambled over to me. "Nice guess."

"Wasn't a guess." I looked up to his face. "Second bite must have sped up the process. Like I told you. Symptoms start up, then in the final few minutes disappear." I swallowed, though it was agonising. "Y- you understand what you have to do, don't you?"

John shook his head slightly. "What are you talking about?" I could tell by his voice that he knew exactly what I was talking about.

Reaching up, I grabbed his gun, wrapped his hand around it, put his finger on the trigger. "Do it. People don't come back if the brain is destroyed. You know that. You shoot me in the head, and you burn my body."

He seemed horrified by my proposal. "No. No, absolutely not. Sherlock, we- we can fix this. We can fix this, you're going to be fine. No one's shooting anyone."

"John," I didn't take my eyes off of his. "John, please. Please, I don't have long. It's over. You did your best, but it's over." A slight convulsion. I hated begging, but I was too desperate to care. "Don't let me become one of those. For mercy's sake, just do it."

Shaking his head again, I watched the tears form in his eyes. "I- I can't. I can't watch you die, not again. Don't make me do this." He looked into my face, and I could tell that he knew very well that seeing me as a zombie would be even worse. "Could… could you close your eyes…?"

"No." I was fading fast. "No, I want you to be the last thing I see." Perhaps I should have agreed just to make this easier on him. But I decided on selfishness for this final time.

John was openly weeping now, and had I had the strength, I would have been, as well. "I'm sorry, Sherlock…. I'm so sorry…." I gave a weak smile.

I hated seeing him like this. So absolutely distraught. It wasn't how I wanted my dying memory of him to look like. "It's okay. It's okay. I… I want this…. I want this…." He put the barrel against my forehead. "Thank you." I took his hand in mine, more for my own comfort than anything. Then, those two words I'd hoped never to say again. "Goodbye, John."

Hearing that affected him more than I'd expected, and for a moment, I was certain that he would back down. But John was a soldier, and he was clearly reminding himself of that. He managed to choke out his farewell.

It was the last thing I heard.

* * *

**Such sad. Very cry. Wow.**

**This one's song is _Crawling_, by Linkin Park.**


	7. Epilogue: Bloody Mary

_**John Watson**_

I didn't know if I believed in an afterlife. Or at least one that didn't involve your body standing up and trying to kill anything in sight. So I didn't have any idea if Sherlock had any way of knowing that I sat there cradling his body for hours on end. I'd ended up closing his eyes at some point, though I didn't remember doing so. I eventually got up the nerve to burn his body as he'd requested. But I didn't set the entire building on fire. I burned him separately, and then Mycroft after, out of respect. There was no way in hell I was just leaving them there. I risked a journey to the cemetery, where Sherlock's grave was the only one which remained undisturbed. I buried the ashes there, his brother's beside him with a makeshift headstone. I decided that if this ever calmed down, I would get him a proper one.

I traveled for days alone. Just killing any zombies I could. Not even in an attempt to survive at this point. Just to let my emotions out in a productive way. At one point, I'd run out of bullets, and my dagger had been tossed out of reach. I'd been willing to let it end. But the bastard that was coming after me got its head cut off before it did.

The woman who had saved my life had been drenched in blood, her blonde hair cut short. Having no one else, we began working together. She told me her name was Mary.

Twenty-eight days after it all began. We were running low on provisions, lower on any sort of hope. We were fighting off ten of them when it all stopped as soon as it had started. They just dropped dead, all over the planet. This time, seemingly for good.

The wedding was small. Three years after the event which to this day still had yet to be explained. Neither of us had many people left. The reports estimated that as much as a third of the world's population had fallen victim to the madness. On Mary's side, her father, a childhood friend by the name of Elizabeth, someone she'd met while fighting. Just three chairs. I had the same number. Mike Stamford had made it out alive. He took the chair to the right. In the middle was Lestrade, who, it turned out, just hadn't thought of bringing his mobile along when he evacuated. He'd gotten used to his prosthetic leg by this point. You could hardly tell he had one.

The last chair was empty. But as I stood at the less-than-extravagant alter, I could have sworn I saw him sitting there.

* * *

**And we're done! Thanks to all the people who allowed me to use their names for OCs and minor characters. **

**Another Linkin Park song this time. This one is _What I've Done_.**


End file.
